The Feminist Within
by thedragonaunt
Summary: John's 'Boys' Night Out' doesn't go quite as planned. Rated M for subject matter and some bad language. Written in response to the challenge to write a Sherlock story with a Feminist theme.


**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**The Feminist Within**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

'Where are you off out to, tonight?' Sherlock asked, as John breezed through from the bathroom, heading for his room, smelling of hair product and aftershave.

'Boys' Night Out,' John replied. 'Anderson's birthday.'

'Oh,' sniffed Sherlock, with a sneer in his voice. 'Didn't know trolls celebrated their birthdates. How old is he anyway? Let me see, seven troll years to one human, so that would be….six. Yes, he's six. I'm surprised he can count that high. What, did he stamp his foot six times? Or did he use his fingers? Oh, I know, he went 'One….er…more…er….lots!'...'

'Alright, Sherlock, you've made your point,' John sighed. He didn't care much for Anderson either, but Lestrade had asked him to come along, to make up the numbers, so he'd invited Mike Stamford, too, just for a laugh.

'Where are you going, anyway, on this 'Boys' Night Out'?' Sherlock asked, emphasising the three word phrase, for extra disdain.

'The Purple Pussycat, actually,' John said, with a wolfish grin. Sherlock sat up from his reclining position on the sofa and stared at his flatmate in disbelief.

'What?' asked John.

'What sort of a Neanderthal are you, John?' Sherlock gasped, looking deeply shocked.

'I'm not a Neanderthal at all, actually. Good God, man, it's just a bit of fun,' John declared.

'It can't be much fun for those women who have to put up with all you hairy-arsed bastards pawing them all night. God, how disgusting!' Sherlock shuddered.

'My God, get you, the Feminist, all of a sudden! You're just miffed that we didn't invite you,' John retorted. Sherlock stood and drew himself up to his full height.

'I would sooner eat powdered glass than ever set foot in one of those places. They are dens of iniquity, exploiters of women, usually linked to organised crime, and involved in human trafficking, too, I shouldn't wonder. I can't imagine why the police would stoop to going there, unless it's an undercover operation, like a stake out – or rather a stake in, since they will be inside, rather than outside,' Sherlock concluded and stalked into the kitchen, dressing gown swirling behind him, to put on the kettle.

John went up to his room, to finish getting ready, then came back down to the sitting room. Sherlock was sitting in his favourite chair – or rather, squatting in it, like a crouching grasshopper, sipping his tea.

'Does Sarah know where you're going?' he asked.

'No, she doesn't. I just told her I was going out with the boys,' John replied.

'Yes, I bet you did. She'd soon give you what for, if she knew,' Sherlock was determined not to let the subject drop.

'Look, no one forces women to work at places like the Purple Pussycat. They do it out of choice. And they get well paid, too,' John insisted.

'God, John, how naïve you are. The whole of society forces those women to work there, by not giving them any other option. What sort of socio-economic background do those women come from, do you think? How much of an education do you think they had? What other employment opportunities do think might be open to them?' Sherlock was on his soapbox now and really getting quite agitated. 'And, as for what they get paid, you don't really think they get to keep all that cash that gets crammed down their G-strings do you? You can bet your boots there's some old babushka in the back room, making sure they relinquish every last dirty dollar.'

'You seem to know a lot about it for someone who claims never to have been in such a place,' John challenged him. He returned a withering look.

'I did not say I'd never been, I said I wouldn't go. I had a case, once….but never mind that!'

He suddenly jumped out of his chair, fishing a five pound note from his dressing gown pocket. He approached John, looking down his nose, with smouldering eyes and a lustful leer. He grabbed hold of John's shirt with one hand and stuffed the bank note down the front of his trousers with the other, letting his hand linger, just a little too long, below the waist band. John reacted by pushing him, violently, away. Sherlock backed off, hands held up in an attitude of surrender.

'Just wanted you to get an idea of what it felt like, John, being on the receiving end.' He returned to his chair and picked up his tea, sipping it, thoughtfully.

'Enjoy your night,' he huffed.

John grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat, feeling violated. By the time he got down to the street, he was beginning to calm down. By the time he got into the cab, he was beginning to see the irony of the situation. By the time he got to the club, he was beginning to regret agreeing to go there. Walking in, he was hailed by the rest of the party, from a table, right at the front, next to the stage. He walked over to join them and sat down. A young woman was currently suspended, upside down, from the pole, fixing her leering audience with a rictus smile. Her outfit – if it even classed as that – left nothing to the imagination. John sat and watched her athletic gyrations for about thirty seconds, then got up and said,

'Sorry, guys, not feeling too good. Gotta go,' and walked out of the club.

When he got back to 221b, Sherlock was at the door, paying for a takeaway delivery, from the Chinese round the corner. He smiled at John.

'Perfect timing,' he said to the confused doctor. 'I ordered your usual.'

'How on earth did you…?' John began.

'Maybe I know you better than you know yourself,' Sherlock commented. 'You're not a Neanderthal, John, you're a decent man. Maybe you just needed to be reminded of that fact.'

'You've got some room to talk, the way you treat Molly Hooper!' John exploded.

'I know I can be tactless and manipulative, John. When I'm all wrapped up in a case, everything else goes out of the window, but I'm like that with everyone, not just with Molly. You're right, I do exploit her weaknesses but I exploit yours, too. I just do it in a different way,' he explained. 'I do it to Mrs Hudson and I do it to Lestrade. I even do it to Mycroft. I'm not proud of that side of my character but I am indiscriminate in my exploitation. If I only did it to Molly, you would be right to call me a hypocrite.' He smiled at John, almost apologetically, then said,

'Now, eat your Chinese before it goes cold. I got a bottle of your favourite wine too. It's in the decanter, breathing. See, I can be considerate, occasionally. Oh, and can I have my fiver back? I'm a bit skint at the moment.'

ooOoo

**Respect and thanks owed to Terry Pratchett for Anderson's system of counting.**


End file.
